A Fire Reignited
by mattapod
Summary: Drogon was last spotted heading East. He brought with him the body of his mother, and it was here, in the lands of Essos, that the Lord of Light performed yet another miracle. And here, in the city of Braavos, Daenerys Stormborn became no one. (I just really, really wanted D&D to do more with the faceless men.)
1. Chapter 1

Darkness.

It was the darkness that came before a dream, the darkness that washed over your mind in your sleep, robbing you of all feeling, of all cognition, of all control. Except now, she didn't know when she would wake up.

In a way, she knew that she was never to arise. It was an inherent knowledge and the only thing that remained in her mind, with the notion that she would never see her children, her people, nor the world she wanted to love and remedy ever again. A strange feeling of remorse settled in her chest as she looked down and saw not her torso and legs, but nothing.

_To leave the world better than we found it._

The calmness, the utter silence of this place took away all her adrenaline that she had before. Her heart beat steadily, her mind ran fast, but nothing was coming to her. A slimmer of thought came and left, along with a flash of something dripping. It almost looked like tears.

Fragments of her life flashed before her eyes, but not enough for her to know when it was, or for her to even determine what was happening. The images looked different, but how it was different she could not tell. It was bright, but dark. It was messy, but calm. It was a blur; that she knew best.

How did she get here again?

All this… this… she couldn't find… Slipping, away, further, blurring. Everything came in bits. She felt detached, like she was losing purpose, like she was ceasing to exist. She tried to grasp something, but remembered she had no hands. She tried to run, but realized she had no legs. An uncomfortable feeling bubbled within her consciousness. It made her want to fall and forfeit this mental battle…

This dreaded place refused to offer her even the solace of collapsing in defeat.

_Out_. That was the only word, the only coherent thought that she had. _Out_. The blurred pictures made her uncomfortable and hurt. She wanted to shut them out but could not… How was she to endure this?

_Out_. She was still thinking. Not everything was lost. _Out_. The _irritation_ crawled up her soul, blooming into something that threatened to consume her very existence. _Out_. She _screamed_, feeling something churn within her.

**_Zaldrīzes._**

Something came to her. She was seeing… _colors_. Yes, that's what they were called. Red-was that red?-lining a gentle pink with black at the tips. The pink seemed to be falling, falling, but it never struck the ground as the scene changed. Green, rising over something brown, struck something in her.

_Fire cannot kill a dragon._

That red! It was fire, and the green, was fire, but… _evil_? She could see _buildings_,_ people_.

Grey Worm?

She looked down and saw her body, on top of a dragon, _her_ baby, her Drogon. Below her was a city, crumbling and burning, but she couldn't care less about it. The feeling was beautiful. She felt _happy. _There was not a care for those screaming and crying.

_Break the wheel._

No. She had to care.

Everything around her vanished. She began falling, her stomach lurching, her heart leaping into her throat until she was thrown brutally against a ground covered in _snow_. Someone was approaching her, some _Snow_, some…

_You betrayed me._

She scrambled to her feet, backing up until something stopped her from going further. A wall of swords pierced her back as the Snow approached her, and it was then she realized it was not snow she stood upon, but _ashes._

Snow-_Jon_ Snow-was speaking, but she couldn't hear him. She brought her hands up to her throat and tore at it, scratching it until she felt something churning inside her mouth and spit it out in a frantic fit.

_"Get away from me!"_

Jon did not listen and continued to step towards her, blue eyes… blue eyes? Stony blue eyes sent shivers down her soul, and she could not look away no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes stared into those eyes, so cold that it's freezing her mind into oblivion, as a knife was plunged into her heart.

Darkness.

Viserys burning in gold.

Drogo suffocating.

_Mhysa_, people chanting.

Tyrion wearing a pin.

Jorah embracing her warmly.

Viserion screeching and falling.

Blue eyes and eternal winter.

Rhaegal screaming in blood.

_Dracarys_, Missandei crying.

Tyrion throwing his pin.

Jon yelling at her.

_Daenerys, my queen._

A knife in her heart.

Darkness.

Then a phenomenally refreshing slap of air and a vision of a crimson room.

* * *

**daenerys being revived is definitely the postcredit scene we deserved and wanted**


	2. Chapter 2

"Daenerys Targaryen, your journey will not end here. The Lord of Light requests your presence in this world. That is why you have been brought back."

Kinvara's words barely reached her ears as she ran a hand over her magically sealed wound on her chest. The red priestess before her seemed not to mind her absolute nudity while fixing her with a passive stare which, rather contradictorily, made her feel like she was under intense scrutiny.

Daenerys gulped, swallowing a great portion of air and barely anything else in her mouth. She coughed as her mind finally registered the rough and dry feel of her tongue. With muddled thoughts and a delayed reaction, the girl reached for the flask Kinvara was holding out and emptied it, shivering as the cold liquid slid down her throat. Her saliva seemed more like slime as she sloshed it around in her mouth, endeavoring to restore control over her jaws and cheeks.

She felt frozen in her position on the rock hard platform below her. The granite pricked her hand as she pressed her palm on it, reminding her of the existence of her arms as the chill of the rock shot a jolt up it. Daenerys closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths to clear her mind and to process what in the hell happened to her.

_I've been brought back to life._

Jon had stabbed her, betrayed her, and shown her all the cruelties the world can never be rid of. Her visionary dream of a broken wheel, of a world without chains, was shattered by none but her family, her lover, one of the only few left who truly understood her world. Here was a present she didn't want to return to, didn't want to see, and didn't want to save anymore. She slowly got to her feet, sheepishly put on some clothes lying beside her, and walked unsteadily to the door at the end of the room and pushed it open, filling her eyes with all the sights of this despicable, ungrateful world.

Except, before her, there was no Kings Landing, no Winterfell, or any of the lands she had been to before. The Dothraki and Unsullied were nowhere to be seen, and neither are any of the Northmen, knights of the Vale, or any of Cersei's troops.

A sleeping dragon took their place instead. And to the left of him, a beautiful, blooming lemon tree with a raven perched on top. The sight gripped her heart and threatened to explode it in a mix of emotions: of nostalgia, of happiness, and most of all, pain. She stepped towards the tree with rapt attention.

Something about this place was familiar to her. Yet, when she tried to remember, her memory failed her, digging up nothing but blurs and forgotten dreams. Her heart swelled with sadness from longing, but there was no telling where the feeling stemmed from, and this pained her most of all. The brilliant leaves were all pieces of her memory that her revival had taken from her, and she hated it. She loathed the fact that she was brought back for reasons yet to be explained (or, more fittingly, unlikely to be revealed), that she was forced, yet again, to face this dismal world where it was made clear to her that people preferred to live in chains. All of this was simply because a faceless hand willed it; a deity whose influences were as sporadic as a dwarf's birth, but as phenomenal as a dragon's, and to whom Daenerys was not in any way grateful, but wholly frustrated with instead.

Kinvara reached over her shoulder and plucked a lemon off the tree. "Do you remember this place, Daenerys Targaryen?" The red priestess handed the lemon to her, and cut her off just as she was about to respond. "You must not, for this is not a memory that will serve to be of use in your future. Your flames will be rekindled without the help of your past. The Lord of Light mandates it."

The priestess's words, for some reason, sparked mild indignation in Daenerys. She glanced furiously at the red woman but returned her gaze upon the lemon tree. "I don't want to be here."

"Unfortunately, that is not for you to choose. You shall serve a purpose in the future to come. You have yet to reign, Daenerys Targaryen, and you will get your throne."

"I don't want it."

"The lords of Westeros have put a broken man on the throne. The Three-Eyed Raven, Brandon Stark, sits in a wheelchair, warging into every animal possible to keep an eye on all of the Six Kingdoms. He does not understand the people's wants and needs, for there is only so much that the creatures can tell him. A man who lives in the past cannot rule the present."

"I don't care."

"Your love for the people has not yet been smothered, Your Grace. It is your inherent knowledge that you have been blessed with. Though madness has claimed you once, it will not do so again. That is why you have been brought back under the auspices of our Lord. There is nothing stopping you now."

"Except for me," she laughed bitterly, "The Lord of Light cares not for what I want, and I will do the same. I don't want the throne and I won't take it. I'll run to the edges of the world, be it west of Westeros, be it beyond the wall, just to escape my fate. Your Lord has no hold on me. I am not a pawn to be toyed with, and my life is not his to give and control. It is mine and mine only."

"If that is true, then Aegon Targaryen would've never taken it away from you."

Daenerys snapped towards Kinvara even before the sentence finished. Part of her knew that she had to hear it, that it had to be mentioned one way or another, but the knowledge did naught to lessen the pain. There wasn't anything she could say to preserve her wounded heart. "He is not here now. Neither is your Lord. Drogon!"

The dragon stirred, opening an eye. He seemed not at all surprised that Daenerys had been brought back from death, which made her wonder just how she had got here in the first place, for the street was too haphazard to be Westerosi. She ran her hand over Drogon's snout and it closed its eyes in joy. There were, after all, a few things that she missed about this world.

With one swift, practiced step, the mother of dragons climbed onto her child and held on tight as it stood up and lifted off the ground with ease. They flew straight into the horizon like an arrow racing to its target.

Kinvara smiled softly, unfazed by Daenerys's departure. She nodded at the raven, her eyes trained on the black dot just below the sun. The black bird took off from the branches it was resting on and perched on her shoulder. Its white eyes reflected the brilliant yellow and beautiful blue of the sky, yet they were strangely soulless.

As the dot disappeared, the red priestess turned and headed back into the Braavosi home with a red door and a lemon tree.


	3. Chapter 3

There weren't many occasions in which Daenerys ever flew for so long. She rarely stayed above ground for more than three, maybe four hours, as dragons were a fast means of travel, and her destinations were never too far. Even when she had to reach Winterfell, she would land within at most half a day of flying, rest, then continue. It was never consecutive seeing as one, she was afraid to tire out Drogon, and two, she herself would be exhausted.

Yet, after they took off, they never stopped until two days later. Drogon took her circling above the city, then towards the ocean, where he dived multiple times and grazed the water with his wings, at times splashing his mother with a vehement wave that nearly toppled her over and succeeded once. Of course, she got right back on and they resumed.

Daenerys felt like a girl again. Her trek to the throne just to lose it within seconds of touching it had stolen all happiness away from her. Westeros was not her home, and Winterfell way less so, but she felt she didn't need a home anymore. This exuberant feeling could feed her and shelter her forever; she couldn't bear to imagine what forgetting this feeling would turn her into, and the fact that she almost did scared her to death, and she did not want to die again.

The night sky, littered with gleaming little diamonds and a huge porcelain plate, was as much her home as anywhere else. Though she felt happy, she could not stay, and the mother of dragons urged Drogon to land as she felt him falter from weariness. Taking her from the city to the mountains and back had no doubt tired the dragon, who dove down from the skies and into the clouds, cutting a hole through the mist and returning from a place of absolute serenity to a bustling, bright city of Braavos, denoted by the behemoth guarding the city. Daenerys felt the clouds with her hands extended, closing her eyes as a pleasant breeze graced her skin and countered the sultry weather in Essos that spring rolled around. Drogon cruised down, circling as he descended on a grassy hill just a walk away from the edge of the city. The mother of dragons slid down onto the grass, keeping a hand on him as she feasted on the sight of the city's oddly calming nightlife.

She spied the house she stayed in, with the ever distinct red door and lemon tree. Near it, brothels were bustling with hot-headed men and women. The clink of cups and coins sounded faint, ringing in Daenerys's ears like mellifluous music. Oh, how she longed to be amidst them, caring for the people, or even just to become one of them and live a normal life. Everything that led up to the present smothered her wish to be Queen, casting layers and layers of cloth upon a match, overwhelming it and suffocating it, until it lost all hope and stopped burning. The throne had long since eluded her, and there was no ounce of want for it left.

She was no longer Daenerys of the house Targaryen, rightful heir to the iron throne. The title died with her. The Breaker of Chains was no more as she watched Missandei return to chains and suffer in them. A Khaleesi sent her Khal to a suicide mission miles away from their home in Essos, and now the Dothraki is no more than a small herd. What protector of the realm torches a city in an attempt to save it?

Her heart's contempt for her actions and her past served only to rob away her faith in herself and leave nothing but a regretful, hateful, and vulnerable girl. It was clear to her how wrong her actions were now that she had nothing more to cloud her mind. There was no way, absolutely no way, that she could repent for what she has done. Perhaps this was the reason why the Lord of Light had returned her life to her: to repay the lives she took. And she would start here, in the free city of Braavos.

Under a dark canvas filled with bright spots, Daenerys Stormborn dyed her hair brown, strip by strip, and, cloaking herself in the colors of the night sky, ventured out as no one.

* * *

It was difficult to perceive emotions through the eyes of a raven. The bird could not discern between joy or sadness, much less anger, frustration, weariness, or all the more complex emotions that a man could exhibit. Viewing the world in the minds of said bird meant only an unflavored impression of the events transpiring before it.

Such were the problems that Bran the Broken faced.

While he was able to watch Daenerys descend down the steps of her house, he could not tell whether she was excited or conflicted. The raven's mind merged with his own, in some ways dumbing down his perception of the world and removing the empathetic part of his brain. Kicking off from Kinvara's shoulder, Bran shot out the window and traced the mother of dragons through the streets.

The cloaked figure weaved and dodged, hell-bent on avoiding contact with everyone. Her motives were not clear, but Bran suspected she had none as she wandered from street to street, never once lingering in one place for too long, though she paused once at the very back of a crowd watching a play dictating the death of the Mad King Aerys and his son Rhaegar. She turned away just as the prince began to shed Lyanna Stark's clothes.

Bran himself stayed and watched a little longer. It seemed that the folks of Braavos were still not aware of the true happenings between the dragon and the wolf, and was rightfully so. The free city of Braavos has no reason to worry over the matters of the Six Kingdoms, but after the Battle of King's Landing, he was surprised that rumors of Jon's heritage hadn't spread to the edge of the world yet.

"Your Grace."

The voice was far away, echoing, like someone speaking from the bottom of a well, but it was all too familiar for the king to miss. Bran had named Tyrion Lannister his Hand out of consideration the dwarf's approval of him, but recently he had begun to regret (though only ever so slightly) his decision to put such a chattery man in his group of counsels. Somehow, in every meeting, there was always something Tyrion wanted to talk about for hours. Though Bran would never explicitly express it, he thought that the process was incredibly tedious.

Perhaps he wasn't more suited for this position than the figure in his borrowed eyes. A man who could bear to sit beside and watch the destruction of the homes of millions and take the throne without a thought right after was no better than the mad queen who burnt the city. Brandon Stark knew that 'it was bound to happen' was a horrible excuse. The Three Eyed Raven thought it wholly reasonable.

"Your Grace…?"

Bran ripped his presence out of the raven, Daenerys's elegant stride an echo in his mind. He blinked the whiteness out of his eyes and squinted slightly as they adjusted to the orange tint of the flames.

"Tyrion."

The little man clapped his hands and grinned. "Ah, Your Grace. I was wondering if I should come back another time. You seemed… preoccupied."

"No," the king waved his hand dismissively, "No need. Though you ought to get used to waiting. I'll have to make more than a few more trips." He sighed, glancing towards the flames licking at the fireplace. The red priestess, Kinvara, seemed to have more influences on life and death than Melisandre did. The Lord of Light certainly had his preferences.

"You've found something?"

"No."

"Not even a lead? The dragon was not in Old Valyria, then."

"No."

Tyrion rubbed his hands together, then stroked his chin. "Have you searched Meereen? Daario Naharis still, though rather surprisingly, has a strong hold of the place. It's been maintained quite well… Or perhaps Volantis? The city is known for the red temple. In that case, maybe Qohor would be a logical place as well. The bloodmages are renown for their skill."

"Patience, my Hand. The dragon will reveal itself soon enough, I believe."

"Oh?" Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. He chuckled. "Of course. I will leave you to your own, now. Rest well, Your Grace."

Bran hummed a soft goodnight. As the door closed, the king wheeled himself to a table, where the history of the Doom of Valyria lay sandwiched between heart trees and blood magic.


	4. Chapter 4

Daenerys left her house at midnight. When she started back, dawn had broken, and a gorgeous orange tint spread throughout the sky, coloring the limestone bricks around her marmalade and littering the sandy floor with a spectacular splash of marigold. The myriad of colors reminded her of something she had only seen a few times in her life, an image that escaped her memory as soon as it appeared.

Her heart soared as she turned her back towards the sunrise and felt the sand crunch underneath her sandals. The morning's serenity of Braavos wrapped around her like a blanket and she snuggled against it, feeling softness all over. The streets of Westeros would never offer her anything like this.

The throne, she realized, was never her wish in the first place.

Kinvara eyes were the first thing Daenerys saw as she entered her house, Drogon closely behind her, guarding the doors as they closed. The priestess seemed almost clairvoyant, fully knowing when and where the mother of dragons was going to return. Her thoughts soon drifted away as a girl she did not recognize stepped out from behind the red woman, hands behind her back and head held proudly, her manner contrasting with her varlet attire.

"Your Grace," the girl spoke, her voice smooth like water, "I am Maralynn Maar. It is my honor to serve you."

"I thought you'd need someone to accompany you after I leave. I cannot stay here forever, my Queen. I trust that she will tend to you well," Kinvara said.

Daenerys couldn't bring herself to show any appreciation. Something about having a girl serve her pulled at her heartstrings a little harshly. "Maar… You're from Lys, if I'm not mistaken? A descendant of Lysono Maar?"

"Not a direct one, but a descendant no less. Her mother was a whore, and she was sold into slavery at a young age. Your conquest of Slaver's Bay freed her, and she made a name of herself crafting all sorts of things: trinkets, small but deadly weapons, and some… weird requests from certain men and women. I took her under my wing." The red priestess smiled softly at Daenerys. "She's heard much about her liberator. Of her journey to the North and back, her dragons, and inevitably… her rebirth."

"Hm."

Kinvara sent Maralynn off with a curt wave and stepped towards Daenerys with a strangely disconcerting smile. The mother of dragons let herself be directed towards the fireplace, roaring with red and orange flames, by the red priestess's gentle hands. The light from the fire blinded her from seeing anything else beside her; it gave her so much power, but she refused it. It seemed forsaken now that she used it to send so many innocents to their deaths.

"Your Grace, the fire has not left you yet. Look into it. Much has changed in the little time that has passed."

Grey Worm was the only thing that appeared. Not a distant future where she sat on the throne, not an ominous image of eternal winter, but Grey Worm. The man that she had liberated and had followed her since; the only man that had truly stayed by her side till the end. He was family, and as Daenerys watched him walk around the island of Naath, she couldn't help but smile as he smiled and laughed among his brothers. The Unsullied seemed to have formed a house of their own, and she wondered if their name was any bit like their Valyrian one.

_How are you?_

It was a silly question, as he was right before her, but there was something unspoken about his features that told her his heart was still broken, and as was hers. The vision faded as Grey Worm fingered a ring with faint carvings on it. Daenerys felt tears slide down her face and a sob choked her as she tried to speak.

"I-he-How is he?"

"He is alive and well, as clearly shown, but his losses eat away at his soul. House Dovogh is a… rather huge house, but with no heirs. Perhaps the world will see a few new things inheritance wise."

Daenerys chuckled through her tears. "I'm… I'm happy for him."

"I think he'd like it very much to meet you. It'd be a great surprise, but a pleasant one soon after."

"I'd like that." She hesitated. "But he shouldn't feel compelled to serve me again. He has a house, a family, a home…"

Kinvara stayed silent, flames flickering in her green eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, the priestess turned away from the fire and exited the room without a word, leaving Daenerys swimming in her own thoughts.

\--

Tugging on her cloak's hood, the mother of dragons traveled through the streets at night a second time. She felt like a child doing specifically the thing their guardians told them not to, relishing the immature excitement that blossomed in her chest. The streets of Braavos were way more interesting up close.

Lately, however, she had begun to feel her sense of duty to the people grow. It was one of the first things reignited in her, aside from her life's fire. Yet, her reputation as a mad and dead queen prevented her from doing mass deeds as she had in Meereen, Astapor, and other cities she conquered. Glancing around, Daenerys looked for opportunities to help the people like a vigilante, though rather haphazardly and unprofessional.

She offered to carry a wheelbarrow for a lonely old woman. On their way to the woman's house they discussed daily subjects, and all the while she toned her voice so low that it nearly caused her to choke several times. When a young girl was threatened by a brutish boy in an act of dominance, she chastised the boy and chased him away, then bought some sweets for the girl. She found the girl circling around her legs happily, dragging her to all the most random places: a wall with no design, no obvious cracks, no vegetation save for an adorable little wallflower growing in the middle of it, an empty alley with a stash of toys (that she presumed was the girl's), and a store whose owner was certainly very congenial. Somehow, she landed a job as an errand runner and delivered a few letters to a few households discreetly.

Eventually, she began earning money from kind citizens who wanted to repay her favor in currency and others who thought she offered because she needed the money. Though the coins she received concerned her, as she refused them many, many times yet still ended up with them anyhow, she found herself preferring this form of work over the Iron Throne a thousand times over. She was almost glad to be presumed dead, but the happening of it haunted her and stretched an immeasurable distance between glee and her currently fading grief.

"A man has come to see a girl."

The girl snapped around, knocking a cup off her workspace, but catching it before it hit the floor. There weren't many occasions which Arya Stark would be startled, however when the very person who taught her how to not be snuck up on her, her facade fell resolutely.

"How did you get on my ship?" Arya hissed.

"A girl is not meticulous. She cannot spot a faceless man in action."

The wolf scoffed. "Of course. It's not exactly fair when you do it, is it?" Arya turned back to her table to organize her maps and charts. When the faceless man didn't respond, she froze. "You're not Jaqen, are you?"

The faceless man chuckled. "A man is not Jaqen H'ghar. The man you seek is in Braavos. He waits for a queen."

"A queen… You don't mean…?"

"That is what a man has come here for."

Arya held up her hands, and, shaking her head vehemently, backed away from the faceless man. "Oh no, oh no, no, no-"

He stood still as a statue, devoid of emotion. The wolf scoffed, running a hand through her hair. Daenerys Targaryen, revived like Jon? The world doesn't need a queen - a tyrant - like her again…

Arya wanted to despise the dragon queen, but some part of her opposed it. She admired her, that she could not deny. Daenerys's morals were those of a true queen's, yet her actions contradict her words. No… Arya had heard of the Queen's accomplishments in Meereen. It was almost as if coming to Westeros was what had poisoned her mind. She helped them defeat the Night King, lost one of her children, battled Cersei, and lost another. The Targaryen sacrificed her armies, her resources, her dragons, and herself all because Jon asked.

Was it so despicable of her to ask for acceptance?

The girl realized now that her family's actions were wrong. She was wrong. Sansa was wrong. Her sister should've accepted Daenerys when she protected the North. The feeble excuse of resources had become baseless and useless. Even Bran was wrong. The king who could've had a chance to stop the burning and pillaging of King's Landing with only a few words. Arya scoffed. If only he had said it.

With all these thoughts swimming in her head, Arya considered the faceless man's proposal. "… Yes. I… I suppose I could do that. I'll head for Braavos on your word."


	5. Chapter 5

"Is there a reason why you cannot put down your hood and scarf, young woman? A helpful girl like you surely should bathe in the glory of the sun. We need more like you in this town."

Daenerys flashed the old man beside her a warm smile. "It's how I work best. The sun isn't too kind on my eyes, and my hair is a burden to my work. I prefer to remain unrecognized when I do venture out as me."

"Curious, indeed. Why have you taken up this job? You refuse payment, so it's not for money, I assume? Then perhaps for the honor?"

"No." The mother of dragons paused, arriving at the man's booth. She picked up fruit from the bag she was carrying and started to organize it on a wooden table. Oranges, apples, bananas, grapes. It was an order she had memorized since the first time she offered her hand. "I feel obligated somehow."

"Obligated?" The man chuckled. "You talk like a true king. Imagine if somehow you landed on the throne. The world would be saved from all evil."

Daenerys's reply was caught in her throat. She sighed, humming in response instead. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man glance at her curiously. "I have to go," she said, diverting the man's attention away from her silence.

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

The man's eyes flicked to the floor. "What's… ah, what's your name? Only if you wish to say, of course."

She hesitated. "Dany."

"Well, Dany-I… If you ever wish to get some fruits, be sure to come back here, alright? I'll give you four for free. To thank you for helping me."

"I'll take up your offer soon. Thank you."

Turning away, Daenerys heard the man call out his own name. Rhon welcomed her to a chat at his booth anytime. The girl waded through the streets with a smile hanging on her lips, but it was washed off when she heard a faint scream walking past a dark alley. Those beside her seemed to not notice and walked past without a care, but the dragon spun on her heels and approached the end of the alley silently.

A figure, wide at the shoulders and steady at the feet, came into view as she snuck on, treading on tipped toes and shimmying along the walls. The closer she got, the clearer it was that there was someone else on the floor, back against the wall, cowering into themselves.

"No, no, please… I did everything you told me to!" the woman on the floor was saying, while the standing man hunched over them threateningly. His fingers hooked on his dangerously loose pants, palm gracing the hilt of his dagger. Daenerys pounced forwards like a cat, unsheathing the dagger and slicing the man's palm from his fingers to his wrist.

"F-" He whipped around, blindly swinging a fist that threw him off balance. "Fuck! It's none of your business, you cunt, get out of here!"

"I'd say you're the one who should leave." After a few seconds, she added, "Take note of who has the weapon."

"I could easily cut you, little bitch, don't you threaten me."

"Try," Daenerys bluffed, keeping her breath steady.

The man lunged forwards with a roar of frustration. As more light fell on him, the mother of dragons saw a clear scar running along his collarbone to under his shirt. He looked like a rather brutish man, if his tone did not already denote, and if she had not dodged his leap, she would've easily been crushed. The man stumbled, surprised, and turned back to spit at her feet in a rather haphazard manner as he tumbled back a few more steps.

Daenerys watched the man run out of the alley embarrassed. She turned around to help the woman up, but she was already standing, patting the dust off her dress as if she had simply been resting on the floor. With the swiftest motion the girl had ever seen, the woman stepped forwards, passing her like wind, her words a faint whistle.

"A man thanks a queen."

_A… man?_

"Wait!" Daenerys called, bolting after the woman. The light at the end of the alley blinded her momentarily and she blinked rapidly to adjust to it. When she was able to see properly, a river of people had appeared before her, denying her all chances of finding the mysterious woman.

* * *

Thousands of miles south a message arrived on the island of Naath. Carried by a white-eyed raven, the scroll was dropped in the wind, floating down, and down, until it stopped rocked and landed at the feet of Torgo Nudho Dovagh. The man picked it up, reading the English with ease. His proficiency in the language had increased greatly under the auspices of his late lover (as it had, after all, went from not at all to moderately understandable), and as one of the many tributes paid to her, he studied and studied until he could read, write, and speak it like it was Valyrian.

_The Mother of Dragons has returned to life. She rests now in her old home at the Free City of Braavos. I believe she'd be glad to see you, Lord Torgo._

_As requested, I have sent ten ships to collect the newly made Naathi silks. Your house proves to have many skills, and surprises me yet. All the money earned in trading will be sent back to the island. Do not respond to any ships bearing the sigil of a wolf. They seek to make a profit with your goods without authorization. Look for those with a raven instead._

_Signed, Brandon of House Stark  
__Burn after reading._

Grey Worm was ecstatic, yet he hated the way the king had nonchalantly described his queen's revival, leaving out all possible details. How is she? Who's with her? Has any trouble come to her? He wanted to see her, serve her, to kneel before her again, this time as a Lord and as the queen's warrior-

His queen wasn't a queen anymore.

He paused, feet rooted to the ground, shoes sinking into the dirt as the thought sank into his mind.

Daenerys wasn't a queen anymore.

She was supposed to be dead.

Like Missandei.

Grey Worm blinked a few times, the words on the paper blurring as he stared hard at it. A split second passed and he raised his head, and tossing the paper in a nearby fire pit, walked on with his heart scrunched in a way he couldn't describe.


	6. Chapter 6

Bran sighed, wearily eyeing all of the letters sent directly to him as decreed. While he was grateful that none in his council has found any of the increasingly frequent letters, he was running out of space to hide them, but he couldn't burn them either. He needed to know just exactly how many people have sighted Drogon; currently, it was a running count of five.

If Tyrion found any of these letters, he'd have a search organized immediately. The man was more than wary of the 'late' Dragon Queen's child and its influences. Bran's Hand seemed to have misunderstood his intentions in searching for Drogon, believing that he sought to tame it. In truth, the king only wished to locate the dragon to determine what motivated it now that the Dragon Queen was dead, but by chance, he had found its mother as well.

_Your Grace,_

_I believe it is the wisest choice to convince the mother of dragons to go elsewhere or to make the dragon leave. There has been an alarming amount of talk growing in this city. Though the dragon flies away before dawn and comes back at midnight, many have been alerted of its presence and are beginning to question Daenerys Targaryen's death._

_I have intercepted four ravens carrying messages to King's Landing, Lys, and Volantis regarding this matter._

_-Pod_

The king folded up the most recent slip, sliding it into his robe pocket as the maester, who had entered unnoticed, approached him.

"Ah, Your Grace," Sam said, setting a scroll and a tome down on the table, "I have brought what you requested, a book of Qohorik history-it's really interesting, I flipped through it yesterday and I loved it. Did you know that blood mages could turn people into abominable shadows?"

"No."

"Oh, well, I certainly didn't either. Some process I couldn't understand, though I'm sure you can, with your knowledge of the past… or something." The maester waved at the scroll. "And… the map of Westeros. I-I really think we ought to get that map room remodeled as soon as possible, Your Grace. It's quite inconvenient without a map to look at in the Red Keep. You know, I'm starting to miss those scrolls turned to ash."

"I don't think it'd quite help me," Bran said, his voice a slight mumble, "as I cannot get to the throne room."

Sam grinned sheepishly. "Yes, of course, pardon me. Should we build ramps to it then?"

Upon the king's exasperated silence, the maester chuckled awkwardly and took his leave. The instant the door clicked shut, Bran reached for his quill, scribbled a message on the back of Podrick's letter, and sent his mind into a raven. He flew for Braavos with the message clutched tightly in his feet.

If what he had seen in his dreams were any bit true, Drogon, and by extension his mother, would have to be safe at all costs.

* * *

Whether it was by fate or by chance she stumbled upon the tower of black and white doors now in front of her, Daenerys could not tell. Roaming the town was initially her objective, but after she had caught a glimpse of the strange woman she met a day ago, she began to pursue her, lost her, and finally ended up in front of this peculiar house. It had a strange ominous aura and sucked her attention like a leech, moving her legs against her will.

She approached the house with rapt attention, feet heavy, eyes trained. The doors swung open on their own accord, showing complete darkness inside. With a deep breath, Daenerys stepped in, feeling the wind rush past her as the doors closed behind.

The air was humid, yet cool on her skin. Specks of faint candlelight was the only thing she saw as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, then slowly, monuments of men with multiple faces came into view, along with people praying to them. The men and women on their knees seemed minuscule, and for a split second, the mother of dragons believed that she had shrunk in the face of these gorgeously unsettling statues.

She took a few steps forward in silent awe. Her footsteps broke the absolute silence painfully and she stopped in her tracks, unwilling to move lest she disturb the serenity around her. And so she stood still, watching a man kowtow, then a woman accepting a drink from an acolyte.

Her heart froze when the woman fell to the ground dead.

"A man has been waiting for a queen."

Daenerys stumbled back away from the man behind her, shoes clicking on the floor, causing the sound to echo throughout the house. The clicks tunneled in various directions and came back layered, swirling around her ears like a tornado, giving off a definite idea of the indefinite enormity of the house. The old man before her smiled kindly, eyes waning in a calming manner.

"Where is this place?" She hissed, awe and fear fighting for dominance in her chest.

"A queen is in the presence of the Many-Faced God." The man said.

"Many-Faced God?"

"The God of Death," he explained curtly. Then a few seconds later, his eyes snapped to Daenerys and said, "Valar Morghulis."

"All men must die."

"A queen does not know the saying?"

"Yes," Daenerys said, frowning, "I've heard of it. Valyrian is my mother tongue."

The old man cast his eyes to a statue, then back to her. "A queen does not understand. Come."

They stopped at a pool of black water. Daenerys looked over it, watching the water ripple gently when other people walked around it. There was no reflection, only a dark, endless void to meet her, and those who drank it.

"This is a gift from the Many-Faced God." The old man came up next to her. "A queen wishes to know why the Faceless Men are here."

The mother of dragons glanced at him, heart pounding in the realization that he was right. "Yes… Your origin, I imagine, is quite interesting. "

"The first faceless man was a slave in Valyria. He prayed to his god and saw many others praying to theirs. He realized that we were all loyal to one, many-faced god, and told this to others so that those who were blessed with this knowledge could pray to all forms of the Many-Faced God, death most of all. A sacrifice from the man and the Many-Faced God made him his instrument and bestowed upon him a face. A master's face. The man took more faces, and others joined him in serving our god as the Faceless Men."

"Valyria," Daenerys mumbled. A home that used to be.

"The citizens of Valyria paid us Faceless Men to kill many, and all became our sacraments to the Many-Faced God. High prices of ours were always repaid; the costs do not matter to those who truly wish for the death of another." The old man glanced up the statue before them. Dany followed his gaze, examining the carvings of a man putting on the mutilated face of another, and what seemed like blood running along his ears to his chin. The gruesome sight churned in her stomach, and she swallowed hard. "A queen had nearly become a sacrifice once."

It took a moment for Daenerys to realize the old man was referring to her. "I…"

"It is in the past, now. A man with the name of Petyr Baelish convinced them otherwise. He understood the costs. Yet, he was killed by a girl once under our auspices. Arya Stark."

"Arya?" Jon's sister was certainly fluent in the arts of death, hence the Night King's fall. "She has done great things."

"A man has no doubt," the man said softly.

"You… I-Can I ask something?"

"Of course."

"Did Aegon the Conqueror ever pay Faceless Men to assassinate someone?"

"No. The dragonlord executed his enemies himself."

"Visenya? What about Rhaenys?"

"The Dowager Queen had wanted to become a faceless man in her youth. An ephemeral impulse. Her tragic sister never held a grudge severe enough to consider. Both had little affiliations with the Many-Faced God."

Dany nodded, attention snapping to another thought. "What about Nymor Martell? The letter that he sent Aegon..."

The kind man chuckled. "A queen knows the details of history. Nymor Martell considered both argued possibilities. Rhaenys was captive, and the prince had wanted to use her against Aegon, but she succumbed to sickness long before he wrote the letter. Tidings of Rhaenys's survival had reached Aegon, though in the time that it took for the message to cross the sea it had become untrue. Prince Martell used other means, thus, to prompt Aegon to respond. He used Aegon's son instead, threatening to hire the Faceless Men to kill him, but he never did. It was only to further a purpose."

Daenerys felt her lips twitch up in a smile. How many people had learned this of the great Targaryen siblings? The connections that the Faceless Men had with the nuances of this world fascinated her. She understood them more every time she learns something of them, and few unspoken things about them began to unravel before her eyes.

"The woman I met in the alley… that was one of your faces, right?"

The old man smiled, nodding like a mentor to his student. "A queen has much to learn. She has yet to determine if this," he gestured to his face, "is real, or not."

"Then please do tell."

"Perhaps another day. A queen has a visitor from Naath. A man believes the reunion is more important than the matters here."


	7. Chapter 7

"Your Grace, I want to propose a potential plan."

"Go ahead, Tyrion."

The Hand spread a map of King's Landing with red and blue lines running through the streets in front of him. "I believe we should install a system of gutters. A new one, to replace the currently…" He hesitated, "rather abominable system.

"The current one doesn't reach Flea Bottom, and instead stops at the Alchemists' Guildhall and stretching no further. The network is insufficient for full plumbing." Tyrion traced a finger along the one red line snaking around Aegon and Visenya's Hills. "It's quite literally one line spanning the whole of King's Landing, and it's blocked by grime that has built up in the past decades. I was thinking that we could open three main lines from Fishmonger's Square, two through the Street of Steel, one curving off at the Sept of Baelor towards the Iron Gate, running through Flea Bottom on the way, and the other forking off at the Street of the Sister and the road towards the Gate of the Gods. The last line will be snaking around The Hook, then to River Row. There will be other smaller gutters webbing throughout the three main lines for ease of removal of waste." The man pointed at the net of blue lines, rather satisfied with his work.

Bran nodded slightly. "That could work. I'll have Maester Samwell report on the conditions in Flea Bottom and we can rework then network if we need to."

"Yes, Your Grace. I really-"

Tyrion paused as the door was shouldered open haphazardly by a panicking messenger.

"Your Grace-!" The messenger called, stopping to catch his breath, "There have been sightings of a dragon in Braavos!"

"In Braavos?" The message sent a jolt through the dwarf's body. He turned to the king, awaiting his orders. Yet the very man who had wanted to find Drogon was silent in deep thought, staring at the messenger with an expression that was almost a glare. Tyrion turned back to the messenger. "Send a message to the Grand Maester and the Master of Ships. I want a search organized, and a fleet of two to head to Braavos. If the dragon is not there, search the other Free Cities."

"Yes, My Lord." The messenger rushed out, closing the door with just as much might as when he had come in it.

"Your Grace, we found it." Tyrion breathed out a laugh, bathing in the glory of this discovery.

"Yes, yes we did."

Strangely, Tyrion noted, the king sounded more despondent than usual.

* * *

He was yet again in Braavos, though he had drifted there in his sleep. At times he would dream, and those dreams he could barely control. He'd be a bystander, watching the world around through a raven, an ox, or even a person.

Bran caught a glimpse of an Unsullied lord entering Daenerys's house. The bird he warged into flew away from them, turning its head towards the ocean in the distance. He forcefully wrenched the bird's head back towards the house, the world spiraling around him. His stomach churned, the organ feeling strangely small and weak.

It was a futile attempt on his part, however, to try and change the bird's course of action. The momentary triumph that he had was robbed from him as the faltering bird resumed its flight, flapping its wings determinedly towards the ocean. Bran's endeavor to control what he saw had stripped him of any strength left to possibly go back to the house. He stared ahead, frustratedly glaring at the ocean glimmering under the setting sun.

He went with the bird, flying aimlessly, his mind blank. As he stared at the orange sky, he felt a warmth in his skin (or under his feathers). It was a sight he could enjoy, that he could bask in. The beauty and serenity of the open seas took his mind away from the worries he had. The sun left without a goodbye, leaving the world in the moon's hands. Bran let go of his worries, embracing the cool night air with open wings, flying around until-

Until he was not.

Suddenly he was running, legs aching, breathing hard in panic. Bran felt his head turn, searching frantically for something unknown; there it was behind him, a dark figure zapping from shadow to shadow, thriving in the darkness. He turned back ahead, scrambling around a corner for his life, darting under street lamps, never leaving the comfort of the light as he would lose his life.

Yet, where there is light, there is always darkness. The shadow proved unaffected by the lamps, and, in one swift movement, stepped out in front of him from the darkness, still and unmoving, as Bran plunged himself into the sword outstretched in front of him.

A shock shot through his stomach, paralyzing his legs and bringing him to his knees. He saw a stygian liquid ooze from his stomach and run down, filling the cracks and traveling into the light, where it stained the ground the color of hell. As he slipped away, he heard the shadow hiss.

"Did your ancestors ever tell you about the Qohorik-"

Bran opened his eyes, wheezing and clutching his stomach. There was no wound, only dry cloth clinging to his sweaty skin. He grabbed the glass of water beside his bed and gulped it all. His dream flashed in his mind and he closed his eyes, but it only gave him a more vivid replay. Yet he forced himself through it, eyes latching onto anything: a worn-out sign, the shoes he was wearing, the ocean in the distance, behind a few tall buildings, and metal with a glint of fire magic.

* * *

"Daenerys."

The way he had called her name, so happy, though with a tinge of sadness, sent her running down the hall to the door. Grey Worm was standing in front of her, here in her house.

She had never been so overjoyed to see a familiar face. Yet, she could not find it in her to speak, to grip him tightly and tell him what happened and to listen to his tale. Dany could only stand still, smiling softly up at him.

"My Que-" Grey Worm paused, eyes staring past her at a pot. "I bring to you a message from the king."

She took the wind-beaten slip of paper from his hand gently, spreading it with her fingers. The message was messy, urgently written, and cautioned her about her dragon.

"I see," she said, glancing out in the distance.

They stood still in silence, both looking past each other. Then, stepping forward, she wrapped her arms around him in a sisterly embrace. "I've missed you."

"As have I."

She chuckled. "Your English has improved greatly. You've been studying a lot, haven't you? It's strange to hear you speak perfect English."

"No, my English is not good yet. Not good enough. I cannot describe things well. There are many things I have not learned."

Daenerys took him inside, calling Maralynn out. She found Grey Worm watching the girl prepare snacks and wine with a strange forlornness in his eyes. She would also occasionally catch glimpses of Kinvara upstairs.

"Sit, please," she said, a wide smile spreading across her face, "We have much to talk about."


	8. Chapter 8

The tales she had heard from the kind man prompted her to return. She indulged in them as the man regaled her with stories of a vague history. Those elusive accounts were finally unravelling, like a ball of yarn previously tangled, the head lost in the mess of string and found after a long hour of searching.

Yet, the voluminous house was empty, silent save for her soft footsteps. There were no men, no women praying, no acolytes offering drinks of death, and certainly no kindly old man. Even the behemoth gods in stone, the only beings (if they could be counted so) in her company, seemed strangely reserved, for the torches beside them were unlit. The tunnels and doors closed on her last visit were open, however, as though inviting her to walk through them, to traverse the maze of black and white.

Daenerys found herself shuffling towards a wooden door, slightly ajar, wind whistling through the cracks. She pushed it open gently, afraid to make a sound. Yet, as if to spite her, the door screamed, creaking and wiggling until she let it go, head between her shoulders cringing. Somebody must've heard me, she thought, and froze, waiting to be thrown out.

Only silence greeted her.

A part of her had wanted to see some life. The absence of it had started to take its toll. She continued on high alert, treading down a poorly lit flight of stairs. The stub of a torch and the musty feel sent her mind into a delusional state; suddenly there were spiders crawling down her back, owls and bats howling in the distance, and footsteps behind her. Yet, when she spun around in paranoia, everything disappeared except for a tiny white flash in the corner of her eye, but even that could be a figment of her over-anxious imagination.

Something has died here. Maybe many things have.

She wanted to turn back the moment she reached the bottom of the winding stairs. The door was in even worse condition than the one she entered the stairs through, its hinges rusting and moss lining every single piece of wood, the stubborn creature even crawling onto the metal handles. It was more green than brown and only rested in the wall, the hinges doing nothing to attach it to its place. Daenerys thought it'd fall forwards and land flat on the ground when she pushed it with a finger, yet it swung resolutely to the side, still standing.

Instead, she was the one that fell to the ground in shock.

Before her stood stacks upon stacks of faces on display. Millions of trophies stood before her, each one a sacrament to the God of Death. She couldn't breathe. The sight had stolen half her life away from her, leaving her incapacitated on the floor, wheezing and swallowing the rising bile in her throat. She pushed herself up, the faces before her watching her every move: a woman with thick eyebrows who, if smiling, could be the most charming person ever, a man whose hair fell in beautiful locks beside his head, a boy with straight, dark hair, and the most innocent features she has ever seen…

None of them seemed despicable. Her mind spun. There was something horrible about the work that the Faceless Men performed-

She fell to the ground, right shoulder ripping apart in pain. A wooden stick hung loosely next to her. A shadow loomed behind, raising the stick again. Daenerys shoved herself sideways as it came down, scraping her leg on the ground. Beads of blood appeared where rocks grazed her skin and she scrambled up, barely catching the features of her attacker. A woman with messy locks and built arms, wearing a white gown, pursued her as she ran through the door and up the stairs.

She skipped steps three at a time, propelling herself along the walls, never daring to look back. The acolyte's footsteps came closer, and the mother of dragons ran faster. Bursting into the main hall, she searched frantically for something to defend herself. A broom conveniently stood beside the door, and, snatching it from its place, Dany brought it up above her head, arms straining to combat the force at which the stick was thrust down upon her. Every millimeter that the broom bent had her fearing for her life.

"I know shouldn't have gone. I-I'll pretend I didn't see anything-" The acolyte raised the stick again. "Please, have mercy," she said, voice calm, but heart running miles.

Much to her chagrin, her pleas were left unheeded. Was she waiting for the acolyte to forgive her immediately and let her walk out the door? It seemed absolutely absurd, and if she wasn't stuck in such a situation, she would've laughed at it; it's not a surprise her pleas weren't answered positively, much less answered at all.

As the stick came down again, she kicked off the wall instinctively, twirling her arms and bringing the end of the broom up to protect her dear face. Her arms buckled in pain and she leapt away, arms out towards the ground and broom still in hand. She dropped into a roll and attempted to counter another strike.

Yet, Daenerys found herself moving much too late, sluggishly raising the broom, utterly failing to block anything the acolyte did. It was easily knocked out of her hand. One hit brought her to her knees, and another left her sprawled on the ground, with the acolyte pressing the stick painfully into her back. If she wasn't before, she was at the acolyte's full mercy now. However, the stick left her back and she took the split second to sprint forward from under it, utterly confused by the acolyte's actions.

"A queen has potential." Before her stood a kindly old man. The stick was no more, and so was the acolyte. Dany stood still, shoulders and knees threatening to boycott; she glared at the kindly old man in a silent accusation.

The man nodded. "There are things yet to be improved on. If a queen wishes, a man may teach her. She can become one of us."

It was true, Dany realized, that she would need it for the future. After such a fight, she was much too slow and too easily tired to ever manage more than a few minutes against a worthy opponent. An image of spine-chilling wights flashed before her eyes. She had lost someone dear to her heart in being so.

Yet, some part of her was hesitant. It was perhaps the impression of Arya that told her to hesitate. She didn't want to become immune to mercy. The faces that she had seen, the acolyte that she had faced, and the gruesome statues all told her it was a cost that came with the benefits of a Faceless Man's training.

"Of course, the queen does not have to give an answer now. She may return home and come back with a resolute opinion." The man said upon her thoughtful silence.

Dany nodded slightly. She turned to leave with a blank mind, feeling empty to the core. Just as she stepped out the door, she turned back, and the kindly old man had turned back into an acolyte.

* * *

"Your Grace-"

"Dany."

"Sorry?"

Daenerys smiled warmly at Maralynn. "Call me Dany. Your Grace is for a queen." She shook her head slightly. "I'm not a queen anymore."

"Yes… Dany." Maralynn frowned as though she had tasted something bitter. "I'm not used to it, that's all," the girl justified.

A few days spent in her company had told Daenerys much about her. Maralynn was proud, but not arrogant. She was meticulous and took note of all the things her lady preferred and loathed. Even those she did not directly serve she would her efforts to, though whether the accepted it was another matter of its own. Grey Worm had endeavored to stay as far away from her as he possibly could. Dany knew it was hard for him to open up to anyone, but the fact that he still hasn't had any interaction with her after a few days was slightly concerning.

"Dany?" Maralynn spoke up, her soft voice cutting through the silence. The crackle of the fireplace added to the serene mood. It gave the girl's gray eyes a strange, sagely glow.

"Yes?"

"Did you get into a fight?"

"Ah… sort of."

Grey Worm's voice floated from the other side of the fireplace. "You could've taken me. I would've beaten him."

"No…" Dany chuckled at his frown. "I'm not saying that you can't. It's just… complicated. They're hard to understand."

Grey Worm hummed, returning his gaze to the fireplace. He was hunched over a chair, brooding in a manner much like Jon Snow. The Targaryen flinched as her last memory of him consumed her attention along with her burning shoulder.

"Sorry, it's a horrible wound. There's no anesthetics to placate the pain that might come… about now."

Maralynn's warning did nothing to prepare her for the millions of pins and needles thrust upon her. Dany wrenched forward in her seat, sucking in a cold breath. She tapped her foot anxiously, slowly returning to her previous position.

"Told you."

Daenerys sighed. "Thanks for the warning."

They spent the rest of the evening in a comfortable serenity, each person to their own. Maralynn tried to engage a conversation with Grey Worm. He refused resolutely, returning to his room curtly. The girl sighed, moving to sit in his seat and watch the fire, which dimmed, and dimmed, until Maralynn realized and it was stoked up again. The mother of dragons sent Drogon away at midnight, bidding her child goodbye for an indefinite time. The civilized world was nowhere for a dragon to stay. She watched him fly into the horizon, becoming a thin line, then a dot, then finally blending into the multiple bumps on the elusive, untouchable moon.

* * *

**sorry for the late update . been pretty busy these few weeks**


	9. Chapter 9

In reality, he sent his mind to bend other beings' will, scouring the world as he liked. In the dream world, it was the being that took his mind hostage, forcing him to indulge in whatever it was doing. At times, it's rather unpleasant.

Though it was only usually so.

This time he was a projection. Looking down he could see his torso, his hands, his feet, though standing. The ground beneath him escaped his shoes as if it was melting under them. The more he thought about it the more the bricks flowed; his imagination now had some extent of power over the world around him, he realized, and he glanced around to see if the walls were in a similar manner as the ground.

Strangely, it was as still as ever. No matter how hard he tried to warp them, to bend, to melt them, they stayed as they were. Of course he only had a small area of influence. To be granted full control would mean he was still swimming around in his own mind, and not in reality elsewhere.

He turned away from the light and walked deeper into the darkness, where he knew the one he sought would likely be. He would be justified to expect that his assumption was true. All his past dreams told him to dwell in darkness, and the Three-Eyed Raven had always been correct so far.

He knew he struck right again when a slip of black flashed before him. He began to run. The feeling had long eluded him, and he couldn't remember if it was supposed to feel like he was hovering, though the thought soon left his mind as he skidded around a corner after a wisp of dark smoke. The chase continued for a while, with the shadow disappearing and reappearing in different spots, determined to get somewhere in a flash, and Bran taking his time to find it. He stalked it as it took the shape of an educated man in Qohorik robes. It took out a pouch of coins and stepped into a discreet shop on the corner of an alley.

Before he could follow in, he felt himself being pulled away against his will, seemingly caused by a source of powerful magic, as it managed to remove even his little sphere of influence. He slipped from the ground and into the sky, torn from his dreams and tossed into his bed, once again Bran the Broken.

* * *

"She can't have just disappeared. Didn't she go out yesterday? I'm sure she won't do anything rash…"

"I'm worried about her safety."

Maralynn sighed in frustration. The past few minutes she spent arguing with the Naathi man had her running in circles of logic. Grey Worm also seemed unable to get his point across communicating in English, which left them at a complete standstill.

"I know! But there isn't anything you can do now… The red priestess is gone, and you can _clearly_ see, she left a long while ago. It's no use in trying to search for Dany. You don't know your way around Braavos, and when you get lost-"

"I won't get lost." Grey Worm huffed, frustration and hatred etched in his features.

"You will. I know it. So I'm telling you," she slowed her words down in a slightly mocking tone, "It's best if you come with me. We can search for her together if that's what you wish, but I doubt we'll be able to find her."

"Where did the red priestess go?"

She dropped her arms and glared at him. "You think I know?"

He stared back with equal intensity. "She said her job was done. You were here before me. What job?"

"I don't know."

"Why did she leave?"

"I don't know. Look, I'll take you to find her if you'll just cooperate-"

"No."

"The whole reason why we're having this argument is because you wanted to go look for Dany. Now you don't want to go?"

"Fuck you."

"Stay in the house, then. I'm leaving."

Maralynn turned on her heels, body tense with frustration. She shouldered the heavy red doors open with a little trouble and started down the stairs in quick, small steps. A moment later, Grey Worm appeared at her side silently. She sighed and walked on, occasionally checking to see if he was still trailing behind her.

They waded through the busy streets, asking around for a fair, brown-haired woman in a hood. It was an impossible search, Maralynn knew, as even now she could see more than a few brown-haired women with hoods; they just weren't on. There was only one possible sighting from a man named Rhon, but she couldn't determine the reason for Daenerys to sit and chat with a fruit seller.

"This is pointless," Grey Worm muttered.

"And what did I tell you?" She retorted bitingly. Upon seeing his defeat, however, she softened. "Might as well make the most of the afternoon, hm? I know there's a play going on down the street… What do you say?"

He nodded lightly in response. Maralynn offered a small smile as they started down the street. They took refuge from the heat under a tree at the very edge of the crowd and watched the play from the middle of a scene.

"No! Aurion, please don't go! The gods have planned a path of tragedy. You will be left alone, forlorn-oh my dear husband, why won't you heed me? Do not risk your life for legacy!"

Aurion, played by a young, blond man, shrugged his arm from his wife's grasp. "I am the Emperor! This is my destiny, to reconquer the lands that were wrenched so suddenly, out of the hands of my fellow dragonlords!" He stomped away, snatching his sword from the table. His wife slumped to the floor, arms reaching out to his shadow.

"Oh, my dear Aurion, the gods have spoken. I dreamt of your demise, alone on an island, unbeknownst to man. Godspeed, dear husband, pray you be joyful until your death."

Maralynn clapped along with the crowd as the scene ended. The man beside her bore a blank expression, and she realized that he must not have heard of Aurion the Dragonlord before.

The tale continued on a ship. Aurion sailed with his Qohorik hosts, sharing stories late into the night. They encountered pirates on the sea, and though Maralynn was unsure of the truth of these events, she laughed along with the jokes and innuendos the dialogue contained. She thought Grey Worm had smiled when the Qohorik translator tried nineteen different languages before finding the right one to speak to the pirates.

Eventually, after stopping at Dorne, they landed on an island that the cartographer could not recognize. Yet, in fear of being executed, he told Aurion that they were on the right course. Their ship was destroyed in a storm while they took refuge in a cave. Slowly, but surely, Aurion and his crew fell to madness and began preying on each other. Hatred bloomed between the dragonlord and the Qohorik. One night, he commanded those still loyal to him to bring many that he knew were plotting against him before his dragon and burned them as a warning. A fight broke out the next day, in which Aurion was wounded and escaped into a cave. The victorious Qohorik rebels chased him into a dead end.

"Emperor Aurion, you failed to govern even a small crew. In anger and fear, we strike against you, to end your terror once and forever!" The leader of the rebels plunged a sword into Aurion's stomach. The dragonlord, with eyes full of hatred, gurgled up blood and fell to the ground dead.

Seconds later, the crowd erupted into cheers. Maralynn offered a whoop of her own, which seemed to pressure Grey Worm to clap awkwardly.

"Have you really never been to plays like these?" She asked him as they left the crowd.

Grey Worm shook his head. "I had no time." He glanced sideways when she hummed. "But I do now. And I'm spending it with you."

The statement brought a smile to her face. The man seemed not to have noticed that his words could easily mean something of a deeper sentimentality, though Maralynn knew better than to misunderstand his slight exasperation.

"Glad to have you," she replied and grinned when Grey Worm huffed. A moment later, she spoke up again. "So what'd you think of the play?"

He was silent for a while. Then, he replied, "Aurion died hateful. I do not like that."

* * *

**long time no see. i had to put this on pause for a long long while because i just wasn't really feeling it, but not im back and inspired again. be expecting occasional updates, but probably not as often as i used to :p**

**-your writer that's most definitely still alive, in case you were wondering.**


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